


Anemone and Aloe

by RunawayKotaro



Category: Mystic Messenger (Video Game)
Genre: F/M, Fix-It, POV Second Person, Rika is only mentioned really, Spoilers for Another Story, This takes place in the two year time-skip so V is really only there at the beginning and end, spoilers for v route
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-06-27
Updated: 2018-06-27
Packaged: 2019-05-29 02:52:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,295
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15063413
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RunawayKotaro/pseuds/RunawayKotaro
Summary: In a year, you have a nice apartment, classes every Wednesday, Thursday and Friday, a part time job, a position as a party coordinator... and one hell of a skeleton in your closet.Rather, a cultist in your living room.A post V route, Ray Lives AU.





	Anemone and Aloe

The past eleven days have been… have been… you pause before ascending the stairs to your apartment and lean your forehead on the wall.

The past eleven days have been exhausting.

You’ve been wearing the same clothes for six days, haven’t showered, have barely slept since V was stabbed. You’ve passed nearly seventy two hours awake with only brief naps in the meantime, and you’re feeling every tense, anxious second you’ve been awake.

You trudge up the stairs to your sixth floor apartment. All you want- all you want!- is a hot shower, a change of clothes, and the world’s longest nap. You don’t even have enough energy to feel guilty about the fact you’re avoiding your landlady when you’re already four days late on the rent.

Step by step you drag yourself up the wooden stairs, until finally you reach the last flight. You sit down on the step, take a breather, almost fall asleep right there.

It’s six in the evening and the sun is starting to set. It’s warm out, comfortable. You smell car exhaust and feel a strange longing for the cabin in the woods. You stare at the potted plant on your downstairs neighbor’s deck.

It’s some kind of flower, tall and multi-stemmed. The stalks are tall and thin, topped with blooms almost the size of your palm, white with pink around the edges of the petals. Two of the flowers are intact- the rest have wilted, weeping their petals over the worn wood of the deck. The spiky, dark and dull green leaves are wilted and browned, riddled in some places with black spots- and the stone pot is filled with weeds, rising up along the flower and spilling over to dangle towards the deck.

It reminds you of Ray, talking about his garden.

It also reminds you of Ray, telling you of his small potted plant- when he'd snapped one of the plant's two stalks, for the crime of being healthier than the other.

It reminds you of Ray, and that’s enough that you no longer want to stare at the flower when all the grief you’ve been swallowing threatens to rise in your gorge at once.

You become dizzy as you rise. You brush off the back of your skirt and take a step towards the flower. You pull out a few of the weeds, almost nervous that the plant’s owner will come out, yell at you for messing with their things. You toss the weeds off the deck and wipe your hands on your already filthy skirt.

You turn around and grab onto the splintering wood of the railing, take a deep breath in and steel your resolve to fight your way up the last flight of stairs to your apartment.

Lifting your feet is monumental to you- but you manage to start up the steps, cresting the first step, then the second.

Your deck comes into view and you stop dead four steps up.

Magenta is the first thing you really register. Magenta that contrasts with the dull wooden paneling of your deck. There’s a familiar man in a magenta coat, and he’s slumped against your door like he melted there, his legs splayed akimbo in front of him, head drooping down towards his chest. His hands are curled in his lap, like a wind-up toy run out mid-fidget. You’re paralyzed for a moment, and anxiety kicks you awake once more.

    He seems still, so still he could be a corpse.

    The universe is going topsy-turvy. The stairs are listing under your feet.

You ascend the last of the stairs, fighting air that’s turned into molasses. Why can’t you move faster? You lift your foot, set it down. One step. You lift your foot, set it down. Another step. You lift your foot, set it down. Gravity is fighting you. You feel the collision of your foot with the steps in quarter time. The shock reverberates up your calf, the muscles in your legs propel you higher on the stairs. Time is passing too slow- you process the universe at a tenth of it's normal speed.

His mint eyes crack open. He stares at you for a long moment.

“M...MC…” He rasps. The corners of Ray’s mouth turn up in a smile, and a tear runs from the corner of his eye. He slumps further down the door, and the grip he had on his coat slackens.

He’s… alive.

In a trance, you pull out your phone, open the messenger app. You don’t read the log, don’t even look at it. You tap the chat bar. “Got home safe! :)” You type, send, and exit the RFA messenger app.

Time kicks back into high gear.

You stumble-sprint up the last few stairs, trip on the third to last one, hit your knee on the top step and crawl two feet over to kneel at Ray’s side. You hold him by the shoulder, press your palm to his face.

“Ray!” You call. You try not to shake him. Your heartbeat gallops when he doesn’t respond right away.

He stirs, and you melt in relief.

“I’m so happy I-” He takes a deep breath, and more tears leak from his eyes, “I can see you now.”

“Ray. Are you okay?” Your voice comes out steadier than you feel- you’re spinning on an axis and everything is going so fast around you-

“You’re worried about me…” Ray whispers.

_ Of course I’m worried about you, _ you think. You have to swallow a hysterical laugh,  _ I thought you died! _

The grief you’d been suppressing hits you like a jackhammer to the sternum.

You shake it off with the stress, with the exhaustion, with the fear and anxiety. You focus on Ray’s face. He’s pale, and his dark circles are even worse than the last time you saw them, bruise purple and tender looking. His eyes, barely open, are bloodshot, and his skin is sallow and blotchy red in places.  _ Oh God. _ Are those burns?

“MC, I’m tired.” He breathes. His head slumps forward. He fights, picks it back up again. He’s dropping off- his eyes slit shut. He doesn’t open them.

“Ray-” You shake him, gently. He doesn’t stir. But his breathing is steady, if wheezing, and- you press two fingers under his jawline- his pulse is strong.

As you stare at Ray’s face, endless options unfold in front of you. You could pick up your phone right now, could open the messenger and tell Jumin and Seven you’d found the hacker. You could dial 119. You could call 112, turn him into the police- he’d drugged V, almost killed him.

You grab Ray’s arm and loop it over your shoulder. It takes some finangling, but you manage to wedge your other arm behind his back and around his waist. You grab a fist full of his coat and- your head is rushing, you haven’t slept enough for this, you’re going to black out- you’re going to- You brace your back against the door and plant one foot out in front of you. You straighten your legs and push up and back, into the door. You slide up the door, feel the resistance between the painted face and the cotton of your shirt. Your hair gets caught on the way up- you have to shake it out of the way.

Ray’s shoulder bumps the doorknob, catches. You try to move him around it but he crumples, slides forward as you rise and you get vertigo as he swings towards the ground. His arm around your shoulder catches him, keeps him from collapsing- at the expense of your balance. 

    You lurch forward, bend at the knees, catch yourself, mostly, but your back knee collides with the wooden paneling of your old deck.

Oh, that one will bruise.

You take a deep breath in, rinse, repeat. Back against the door, pushing in, pushing up, arm wrapped tight around Ray’s ribs. You straighten your legs and take a step forward with Ray’s weight in tow. You unloop your arms from around his ribs, move your arm around and grab his dangling wrist. You shuffle, grab his other wrist and pull-  _ pull _ , until you manage to loop his other arm over your shoulder as well. His head slumps to the side.

It’s like you’re giving the world’s lamest piggyback ride. The thought makes you laugh, high and breathy. You cough, your knees nearly buckle. You still haven’t managed to turn around to face the door.

You take one step forward. Ray’s feet, slumped as he is, drag. You begin to turn. You shuffle your feet, moving one forward and one back, nudging Ray’s leg as you go. You twist your hips slowly, carefully turn your shoulders to follow- Ray’s weight slumps to the side. You lurch towards the railing.

_ Don’t let me fall down the stairs Oh God Oh No- _

You steady yourself. You tell yourself you can do it, it’s only one more quarter turn before you’ll be facing the door. You repeat the process, trying to lean to the other side, keep Ray balanced on your back.

You finish the turn and stare at the blank white face of your aluminum door, and nothing has ever seemed so beautiful before. You close your eyes and sway on your feet, feel your grip on Ray’s bony wrists slackening. You can feel the fabric of his coat sliding out of your grip and it takes you fifteen seconds to convince yourself to care, you’re so exhausted. You straighten up.

Black spots dance in your vision and you blink them clear.

You get your bearings once more and reach out, struggling to keep Ray’s arm draped over your shoulder. You close your grip on your brass doorknob and twist. The metal slides, cool in your sweaty grip. It doesn’t budge.

Locked.

And now you’re crying. Tears of frustration- are you tired enough to call it despair?- drip down your face, towards the tip of your chin.

You hiccup, you pull out your phone. You can't even get him into your house- it's practically a sign, Ray is still balanced on your back, all his weight leaning on you. He’s heavier than you expected, but still too light for his height.

    What were you doing anyway? Ray may have been nice to you, but-

You look at your phone and see your I.D. where you slid it into the pocket on the back of the case. You remember seeing a spy movie where they opened a lock with a credit card, and your I.D. is about the size of one-

    You've committed, it's the only explanation you can give yourself when y ou pull the I.D. out from your phone case. You fumble, nearly drop your phone- Ray nearly slides off your back. You hunch and use one arm to pull him higher on your back. You shove your phone back into your pocket, take your liberated I.D. and jam it into the crack between your door and the wall.

Gritting your teeth, you shove the card in between the door and the jamb, hoping to make it to the lock.

    As you jimmy your I.D. into the crack you’re acutely aware of Ray, wheezing against your back, of your own exhaustion, of how your I.D. will probably be ruined once you’re done with this.

If you were smarter, you would have unlocked the door before you picked up Ray.

If you were smarter, there’s a lot of things you wouldn’t have done in the past two weeks.

You feel the edge of the card hit the lock and you start to move it back and forth, trying to push the lock in. You hope this works- you hope you didn’t lock the deadbolt before you left- you manage to shove the card in the rest of the way and the doorknob turns. You ride the high of victory for all of two seconds before you realize that the door opens outwards.

The tears of frustration are back- they never left- and you’re about to start hyperventilating, nearing a total breakdown. You want sleep, a shower, a change of clothes. You want sleep- because sleep is time away from the panic that’s been pressing down on you since Rika had V taken away in the garden-

    A sob breaks out of you , but you force yourself to move, to grab the doorknob and take a step back. Ray’s weight is uncooperative and your mind briefly flashes you an image- you’re tripping over him, falling backwards- both of you, tumbling down the stairs, crashing into the railing- your head lists and you have to brace yourself before you take another step back and pull the door open. Your I.D. falls to the ground, discarded. You forgot to take it out of the lock.

Stumbling, you pull yourself inside, drag Ray after you. 

    You enter through the kitchen, pull Ray along the linoleum. The floor squeaks under your shoes. You smell something, sweet and pungent and unpleasant.

    Ray grows heavier and heavier as you walk. You drag him over the divider between the kitchen and the dining room, stop, and bend over. He folds over your back. You reach around, loop your hands under the juncture of his knees. You clench your fists in the smooth fabric of his pants and  _ heave _ him onto your back.

    Quickly, quickly, you're walking as fast as you can manage before you drop him- you careen out of the dining room and into the living room, making a too quick turn at the end, towards your room. The door to your bedroom- thank God- is open.

    You mess up, miscalculate the turn- slam your shoulder into the door-jamb.

    “Ah!” You hiss. You bite your lip squint your eyes shut.

    But you can feel Ray slipping, slipping, slipping out of your grip and you stumble forward once more, rushing towards your bed.

    You spin on your toe, drop him as gracefully as you can manage to the bed. You brace yourself on your knees, take deep breaths. You stare at your sand colored wood floor, at the greasy hair that drops in front of your face. You see your skirt, see the dirt smears you got from pulling the weeds- layered on top of a myriad of other stains you can’t name the origin of. You turn your head, glance at Ray.

    He hasn’t stirred through all of this and you have just enough energy to worry. You reach out and press your hand to his forehead. He’s burning up.

    Biting your lip, you straighten, rub your eyes. They feel bruised, swollen. You’re sure that they’re bloodshot.

    You stumble out of your bedroom and into the bathroom. You grab the first towel you find- an only slightly used hand towel- and wet it with cold water. You hold it over the sink and squeez. Your hands are weak and you can barely twist it. You’re beginning to have trouble focusing your eyes. When your hands give out and you drop the towel into the sink with a wet  _ flop _ and a splash, you just stare at the soggy pile of fabric.

    You shake yourself and reach into the sink. Your fingers close on the fibrous material and you pull it up, wring it out again.

    You take the towel in your hands and leave your bathroom. You fold the towel, once in half, again into quarters, and trudge down the hallway towards your room.

    Stopping in the doorway, you look over Ray. He moved while you were away, flipping onto his side with his hands curled in front of him, close to his heart. His feet are still hanging over the edge of the bed, but he’s crossed his ankles protectively. He seemed to be trying to curl into a ball. You feel something in your heart squeeze.

    You walk into the room and set the towel on your nightstand. You nudge your aloe plant out of the way to make room. It’s a small plant in a little sky blue pot that you feel you've had since forever.

    Hands now free, you slide off Ray’s shoes, set them down by the bed. The bed skirts brush the toes of his shoes. You straighten, slowly, grab his ankles and push them onto the bed. The bedsheets crumple, bunch, and you have to pull them mostly straight again before you grab Ray’s shoulders and pull, pull, pull, until he’s lying mostly straight on the bed, albeit in the middle of it. You push him over so his head and shoulders lay mostly flat on the sheets.

    You reach for the towel and hit the aloe’s pot instead. The force scoots it to the edge of the nightstand. You lunge, barely catch it before it falls off and shatters.

    Sighing, you place the aloe back on the nightstand and grab the towel. You lay it gently over Ray’s forehead. He moans incoherently.

    You stumble back out of your bedroom and sway on your feet. You're seized by the idea that you should make soup- it's sick people food, and Ray seems sick-  


    The hallway seems miles long. You walk through your living room to the kitchen, bracing yourself on the wall.

    You cross from the living room to the dining room into the kitchen. You enter, facing the back door, cupboards to either side of you. Where did you leave the chicken bullion? You feel as though you haven’t been in your apartment for years.

    You open the closest cabinet, leaning over the counter. The edge of the wooden surface presses into your stomach. You stretch upwards, on your toes. The soles of your shoes squeak against the linoleum. You reach for the knob, pull the cabinet open.

    Cups.

    You lean, open the next one.

    Bowls.

    You turn around and cross the kitchen, open another. Spice cabinet. You close it, and step away before you remember that that’s where you would have left the chicken bullion. You open the cabinet once more and rifle through the contents, dig out the bullion. You take a cube out of the box, stick the box back in the cabinet. You lean down, to the cupboard under the counter.

    Wait- the pot is in a different cabinet.

    You cross to the correct cabinet, pull the pot out, drop it on the stove, and unwrap the bullion cube. You drop it into the pot and turn on the burner. Everything seems like it's two inches to the left of where it's supposed to be, and your head is spinning.  


    It takes you a full minute of staring at the pot to realize you’d forgotten the water.

    A laugh bubbles out of you- a choked kind of giggle snort hybrid. You startle yourself with the noise, hiccup, and begin laughing in earnest.

    “I forgot to put water in the pot,” You wheeze to the empty kitchen.

    “Oh. Oh my god.” You run a hand through your hair, turn off the burner, stare at the burning bullion. “Ahahaha, this… I have to sleep-”

    You inhale deeply, blow out an exhale. You abandon the pot, totter out of the kitchen and into the living room.

    Your couch- blue, scratchy, covered with an old cream colored throw blanket- has never looked more inviting. You rush over and bump your leg on the coffee table. The pain on your thigh barely registers. You collapse on the couch gracelessly. Your consciousness vanishes like a candle blown out within seconds and you fall asleep like that- stomach down, head crooked on the arm of the couch, your hand dangling to the floor- within seconds.

    It’s six thirty seven p.m.

**Author's Note:**

> I was so disappointed about Ray dying in V's route that I had to write this. Like, everything else was good!!! Why did cheritz have to do my boy like that??? So this is going to be an AU where Ray lives. It's going to be a series of interconnected one-shots and drabbles, basically just what it says on the tin. The next one-shot is going to be dealing with explanations and expositions. It's going to be more V/MC-ish too, so look forward to it!!


End file.
